What the Thunder Said

Chapter Eight: The Tense Transition

Hermione glanced down at the pile of yellow silk on the floor and grimaced. She wrenched one of the blankets from the cot, wrapped it around her shoulders defensively, and tried to ignore the fact that her knees were shaking. Her stomach rumbled angrily, and she realized just how long it had been since she had had a square meal. She ran obsessively through her mantra in times of trouble, trying to recite the twelve uses of dragon's blood.

She was missing four when she stepped away from the cot.

There was a more pressing need, though. She balanced precariously on the edge of the stairs before making her way down into the living room. Thankfully, Snape was nowhere in sight. She crossed the room to the one bathroom and stepped inside, quickly locking both doors.

She ran through her mantra again, tentatively. Only three gone, now.

The rest of the house was outfitted with Muggle appliances, and the bathroom seemed no different. Still, Hermione had to admire the loveliness of the little room. It was neither too small nor obscenely large, and the fixtures were clean and smooth. She swept aside the simple shower curtain and fiddled with some of the silver knobs for a moment. She then sat down on the porcelain toilet, cradling her throbbing head in her hands, and waited for the stream of water to warm up.

She bypassed the mirror completely.

She silently thanked whoever it was that had designed this bathroom, stepping past the shower curtain and into the tub. The water slicked her untamable hair to her scalp. She ran her fingers over the warm, sandstone-colored tiles. It glowed faintly golden, and the bathroom was awash in cream and white. It was very soothing.

She stood for a long time, merely letting the hot water pink her shoulders. The shower was in impeccable shape, clean and well ordered… a stark contrast to her own cluttered bathroom at her flat in Cambridge. Still, there were some realities that placed her dingy little water closet over the creature comforts of this relative spa.

Namely: her own shampoo. It was with some trepidation that Hermione reached for the square, green-glass bottles lined up on one of the built-in shelves. She unstoppered the first unmarked bottle, setting the cork aside and glancing down into the shimmering depths. The scent was familiar: evergreen, with a touch of something spicy and clean and pungent. She examined the rest of the bottles in turn before biting back a rough laugh and reaching for the simple block of soap.

That bleak, terrible, annoying man of a potions master brewed his own toiletries.

~*~*~*~

Severus entered through the backdoor, as was his habit, and the screen door swung shut behind him. He placed his brown paper bags, loaded with groceries, on to one of the cool countertops. He paused, however, as he listened to the water running through the plumbing. He stepped into the living room and glanced first at the stairs, and then at the bathroom door.

He breathed a faintly annoyed sigh, convinced that she would use up all of the hot water, and paced back into the kitchen. He was sorely tempted to run the kitchen faucet at full blast, flush a toilet, and start the dishwasher. He managed to control himself, but only just

He set to putting away his—yes, his, thank you very much—groceries. Stowing a block of French cheese, Severus mildly reminded himself that the grocery store in town was small but sufficient. San Domingo was only a brief ferry ride away from the larger San Juan Island, after all, and the town itself was merely slightly smaller than Friday Harbor. This soothed his nerves. The grocer was a friendly man, the town was quaint, and it seemed as if the Americans fawned over anyone with a British accent.

It was a small, affluent, quiet little community. He liked it. Besides, Severus was allowed his Brie.

The brown paper bags neatly folded and stored in one of the drawers, he reached for the heavy kettle. He stood at the kitchen sink, cold water drumming against the empty walls of the steel kettle, and gazed out the large window at the water. Granger was up, then. He ran his tongue over his teeth in a thoughtful manner. He hadn't heard more than a stirring from his attic for the past few days. While uncomfortably aware of the girl's presence, Severus had let himself slip into quiet denial. He had a few days of peace, and he made the most of them.

Somehow, it made it even worse knowing that the foolish twit of a child had decided to rejoin society.

Society. Laughable, that!

He paced across the living room to his own bedroom, picking, from his wardrobe, his least favorite pair of trousers and a cotton shirt. He reached for his wand and cast a quick Transfiguration spell. He had never excelled at the subject, and while Minerva would no doubt have managed to turn a goose feather into a ball gown, he liked starting with something familiar.

He didn't have much experience with women's Muggle clothing, so he merely reduced the size a bit and told himself, roughly, that the silly chit would have to make do. He closed his eyes as he reluctantly Transfigured a pair of socks into undergarments.

Damn the girl.

He stomped back into the kitchen just as the kettle was beginning to hum.

~*~*~*~

It felt sinfully good to be clean—really, truly clean—after all that time. Hermione reached for a fresh towel, admiring its weight and size before tucking it under her arms. She was careful not to make too close an examination of her body while she thoroughly dried her pink skin. She felt slightly tipsy, and she wasn't sure if it was from the hot water or the sleeping draught. Stepping out of the bathtub, she sat down heavily on the soft carpet that covered a piece of the tiled floor.

She realized, with a thankful jolt, that her mind was unfogging.

She ran a hand through her hair, her knees drawn up to her chest under the tent of the towel. She had been too quick to laugh at Snape's concoctions, she realized, though she doubted she would be telling him that any time soon. Her hair was smooth and her skin tingled faintly. She hitched up the large towel, draping it around her shoulders to keep from shivering in the cool air.

Hermione gradually regained her balance, crawling to her feet reluctantly. She secured the towel as best she could; it was larger than she was accustomed to, and even pulled up over her shoulders it hung easily to her knees. She plucked her discarded sheet from the floor and balled it up, tucking it under one arm. She timidly cracked open the door, a curtain of steam following her into the living room. She was happy to note that Snape was nowhere to be seen. There were auspiciously loud bangs coming from the kitchen.

She missed the little bundle on the floor at first, catching her foot on the fabric. She glanced down at it for a long moment, her reactions still slightly delayed by the mind-numbing effects of prolonged use of the Dreamless Sleep. She picked up the bundle hesitantly and hurried upstairs.

She dropped her sheet on the floor; while Hermione Granger was notoriously organized in her studies, she was surprisingly lax about her own personal surroundings. She was tidy only where she needed to be. She, for one, had never understood the need to make ones bed when one intended to muss the covers again at the end of the day.

She dropped the bundle on the bed, hitching up her towel with compulsive fingers. Hermione unfolded the cotton shirt, first: white, long-sleeved. A man's shirt, really, but it looked like it had been reduced in size. Transfiguration. She fingered the soft material carefully. She didn't recognize a Muggle label in the nape. In fact, she didn't find a label at all. Handmade. Extraordinary.

Sandwiched between the trousers and the shirt was a bundle of underwear. She blushed, trying to imagine her Potions professor bothering with "mindless wand waving" in order to fashion her a pair of panties. Still, she hadn't quite thought beyond her shower, and he had been conscious enough to recognize she needed something to wear.

I would have been "conscious enough" if he hadn't drugged me, she thought sharply. It wasn't particularly accurate, Hermione knew, but it felt good to direct a bit of bitterness in Snape's direction.

She finished drying her pink skin perfunctorily, ignoring her body as much as she could. The underwear was a bit loose, as was the undershirt. She had to roll up the sleeves of the cotton work shirt, pushing them up to her elbows. She buttoned it up automatically, the shirttails hanging to mid-thigh. She left the last button undone and then reached for the khaki pants.

Hermione Granger had never expected Snape, of all people, to own these sorts of cloths. It was hard to untangle him from the billowy-robed, somber black bat-slash-man creature of the dungeons. It was obvious that the shirt and pants were his; they were a man's cut, and while clean, they smelled faintly of evergreen.

Typical.

She filed this—wearing Severus Snape's underwear—under "Things to Tell Harry and Ron When This is All Over." They would never let her live it down.

Wearing Severus Snape's underwear.

Followed closely by:

Using Severus Snape's shampoo—which, yes, does exist, and Dying, but not really.

That thought sobered her. Harry and Ron thought she was dead, as did every schoolmate she had made and nearly all of her professors and her coworkers. Her mother and her father thought she was dead. She pushed them from her mind and set to hitching the pants about her waist.

The trousers were loose, and they nearly slid off her hips after she finished with the row of buttons. She tucked in her shirt and cuffed the pant legs, rolling the waistband once. Her pale feet poked out from under the cuffed hem, toes visible against the smooth hardwood floors. She sighed and sat down on the edge of her stripped bed.

She toweled her hair dry as best she could and then went downstairs.

~*~*~*~

Severus had never been one of those men that found a woman wearing his own clothes particularly erotic. Especially not when the girl happened to be pale, sickly, skinny little Muggle-born know-it-all.

"Miss Granger."

"Professor Snape."

She was standing at the foot of the stairs, her bare feet on the last step, and he was sitting in the living room with his cup of tea and a crisp tome. The terse, perfunctory greetings out of the way, he desperately hoped that she would leave him alone. He turned back to his book—a relatively modern thesis on the titration of mermaids' tears—and hope that she would take the hint.

She wavered for a moment—he watched her from the corner of his eye—standing almost perfectly still at the base of the stairs. She then padded into the kitchen. The lines around his pale mouth loosened and he devoted his attention once again to the chapter on the acidic properties of the bodily secretions from the Adriatic species of merfolk. Fascinating stuff, really.

He was vaguely aware of her rooting around in his kitchen—yes, his, thank you very much—and hoped that she wouldn't eat too much. As much as he liked his grocer, Severus did not fancy another trip into town for the evening. With his luck, though, she would gobble all of his cheese without a second thought to the fact that it was he who had stocked the shelves in the first place.

To his surprise, she reappeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room only a few moments later. Instead of wielding a block of Brie, she cradled a small cup of tea between her palms. And then she thumped her way across the floor and sat down in one of the simple little armchairs directly across from him.

She was more foolish than he had thought. With an irritated sigh, Severus snapped his book shut and placed it on the coffee table.

"What, pray tell, do you need now, Miss Granger?"

She raised her chin a bit at the tone of his voice, and he noticed then the unbearable resemblance she still bore to her eleven-year-old self. She looked for all the world like a cocky first year, challenging her teachers when she should have been patiently stirring her cauldron. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your reading, Professor."

He highly doubted that, and said as much with a signature snort. He gave her a sharp look. "You are wasting my time. Hurry up; what is it you wish to bother me with now?"

She faltered momentarily, now put to the task of actually articulating whatever it was that was bothering her silly mind. Severus put his book aside and rested his elbows on the armrests, steepling his long fingers. He regarded her impatiently, fixing her with a look he had perfected in his classroom.

The Granger girl rallied herself and forged ahead. "I wish to discuss the situation at hand, Professor Snape," she declared at long last. Severus rolled his dark eyes, but she forged ahead before he could get a snide remark in edgewise. "I believe we have much to discuss. Don't you?" There was a challenge in her voice, as well as a barely perceptible line of fear. She took a sip of her tea.

"Is that my Earl Grey?" he asked suspiciously then, glowering at the cup she cradled in her hands. He fixed her with an icy look. "You have never respected my store room, but I would appreciate it, Miss Granger, if you would not steal from my personal tea stores."

That began the set of strange, uncomfortable conversations in the little house by the water.

~*~*~*~

That afternoon, in the living room:

Grudgingly, from Hermione: "Thank you for the clothes."

 "Do not thank me; there was no alternative. I had no desire to have you plodding around in a towel in my house. You might have been more considerate."

"As though I had a choice. Unless you prefer the Hufflepuff robe?"

"Don't press your luck, Miss Granger. There is a trunk of things in the attic, I believe, that belonged to Albus's cousin. You should have looked."

"Hmph."

"Leave me alone."

"Gladly."

~*~*~*~

"Miss Granger."

"Professor Snape."

"I had rather thought you had retired for the evening."

"I thought it too cruel to deprive you of my company, my dear Professor."

"Again, please leave."

"A shame you can't deduct House points, now, isn't it?"

~*~*~*~

After a careful knock at Snape's bedroom door:

"Miss Granger—and this is very important—do not ever bother me in my bedroom."

"Touchy. May I ask you a question?"

"Will you leave if I say no?"

"Of course not. What do we do now?"

"I was planning on finishing my book in the privacy of my own rooms, but it appears that you have other plans."

"Well, our lives here seems somehow more important than—what is it that you're reading?—ah, yes, mermaid tears."

"What do you want to know now, Miss Granger?"

"Is it safe to leave the house?"

"Yes. Please do."

"And the wards…?"

"Only on the property. But there are precautions that can be made."

"Is there a town?"

"Yes."

"Muggle?"

"Bravo, Miss Granger. Hogwart's best and brightest. Such hope I have for the future of the wizarding world."

~*~*~*~

"Have you examined the wards?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't look at me like that."

"Yes, then, Miss Granger, I have examined the wards."

"And…?"

"Unplottable."

"And…?"

"Do you ever give up?"

"No."

"We're quite safe, Miss Granger. Now, should I read you a bedtime story, sing you a lullaby, and tuck you in?"

~*~*~*~

Later, in the kitchen, over a tense, cold dinner:

"Miss Granger, if you could please restrain yourself from that infernal smacking. I would have thought the Muggles would have taught you proper table manners."

"Oh, shut up. I have impeccable manners."

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Don't treat me like a child."

"I will not point out the obvious. And as to my previous comment… Let me amend that: don't talk at all."

~*~*~*~

The next morning:

"None of the clothes fit."

"What?"

"None of Professor Dumbledore's cousin's clothes fit."

"Fix them."

"I can't."

"After seven years of the finest education in Britain, Miss Granger, you presume to tell me you can't alter a simple gown?"

"First of all, I have had far more than seven years of education, Professor. And secondly, unless you have forgotten, I have not got a wand anymore."

"Oh, the poor, poor helpless Miss Granger. Where is your common sense? Do it the conventional way."

"I don't know how to sew."

"What is happening to domesticity in our culture?"

"Be careful, Professor. Very careful."

~*~*~*~

"Have we any neighbors?"

"I don't know. And if we do, I hardly expect they'd want an annoying little creature like you banging down their door to borrow sugar and chat their ears off."

"The 'I don't know' would have sufficed."

~*~*~*~

"You are the epitome of the Ministry worker, Miss Granger."

"How so?"

"Bossy and annoying, ever-present and absolutely useless."

~*~*~*~

"Oh, my! It seems to me I've accidentally dropped this lovely block of Brie into the disposal! Oh! And there goes the tin of Earl Grey! Hermione, old girl, you're such a clumsy little thing! Ever so sorry, Professor Snape! Must be the remnants of that smashing potion you gave me kicking in."

~*~*~*~

"You're unbearable."

"I assure you, the feeling is mutual. Let's not talk anymore than we have to."

"Quite possibly the first sane, sensible thing I've heard from you in forty-eight hours, Miss Granger."

~*~*~*~

For Severus Snape, a man accustomed to his privacy, it was a taxing two days. He had spent years cultivating his temper, though, and he unleashed the full fury of his cutting tongue on his unsuspecting victim. It was a small sliver of joy in his bleak existence.

And for Hermione Granger—cautious, brilliant, and reasonable—took the bait. On some level, she was comforted by this acerbic conversation. It was morbidly reassuring. And on another level entirely it wore her down inside, it made her chest ache, and it made her long all the more for the easy company of those she had lost.

Luckily, both the Bat and the Cat had someone to blame for their misery: snowy-haired, sky-blue-eyed, lemon-drop-scented Albus Dumbledore.

Snape decided that someday, somehow, that meddlesome wizard would hear of this. Hermione decided that, even if Dumbledore were the world's strongest wizard, he wouldn't last long against her hair-pulling techniques and the sharpened nails of a Very Angry Witch.